Watch Us Dance
By Leïla Slimani
Mathilde stood at the window, looking out at the garden. Her opulent, chaotic, almost vulgar garden. Her vengeance against the austerity that her husband imposed upon her in every aspect of life. It was very early in the morning and the sun peeped shyly through the leafy treetops. A jacaranda, its mauve flowers not yet open. The sole weeping willow and the two avocado trees sagging under the weight of fruit that no one ate and that fell to the ground to rot. The garden was never as beautiful as at this time of year. It was early April 1968, and Mathilde thought it was not by chance that Amine had chosen this moment. The roses, which she had brought in from Marrakech, had bloomed a few days earlier and their sweet, fresh scent pervaded the garden. Beneath the trees lay agapanthus, dahlias, lavender and rosemary bushes. Anything could grow here, Mathilde always said. For flowers, this soil was blessed.
Already she could hear the songs of starlings and she spotted two blackbirds hopping in the grass, their orange beaks pecking at the earth. One of them had white feathers on its head and Mathilde wondered if the other blackbirds made fun of it or if, on the contrary, its uniqueness made it stand out, earned it the respect of its peers. Who knows how blackbirds live, she thought wistfully.
She heard men’s voices, the roar of an engine. A huge yellow monster appeared suddenly on the path that led to the garden. First she saw its metal arms and then, at the end of those arms, the enormous shovel. The mechanical digger was so wide that it could hardly pass between the rows of olive trees, and the men yelled instructions at the driver as branches were ripped from the trees. At last the machine came to a halt and peace returned.
This garden had been her lair, her refuge, her pride. She had played here with her children. They had napped beneath the weeping willow and picnicked in the shade of the Brazilian rubber tree. She had taught them to flush out the animals that hid in the trees and bushes. The owl and the bats, the chameleons that they kept in cardboard boxes and sometimes left to die under their beds. And when her children had grown up, when they had tired of her games and her tenderness, she had come here to forget her loneliness. She had planted, pruned, sown, replanted. She had learned to recognise the different bird songs audible at every hour of the day. How could she dream now of chaos and devastation? How could she wish for the destruction of what she had loved?
The workmen entered the garden and hammered stakes into the ground to form a rectangle twenty metres long and five metres wide. They were careful as they moved around not to crush the flowers with their rubber boots and Mathilde was touched by this pointless consideration. They gestured to the driver of the mechanical digger, who tossed his cigarette out the window and started the engine. Startled, Mathilde closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the gigantic metal claw was sinking into the ground. A giant’s hand penetrated the black earth, releasing a smell of moss and humus. It tore up everything in its path and, as the hours passed, built a hill where shrubs and decapitated flowers lay lifeless amid the soil and rocks.
That iron hand was Amine’s. Or so Mathilde thought that morning as she stood statuesque behind the living room window. She was surprised that her husband hadn’t wanted to watch it happening, to see her plants and trees torn out one after another. He had told her the hole had to be there. That they had to dig it next to the house, in the sunniest part of their land. Yes, in the place where the lilacs grew. Where the lemange tree had once stood.
Excerpt from “Watch Us Dance” copyright © 2023 by Leïla Slimani. Published by Faber Books.
About the book: Morocco, 1968. As she stands at the window, Mathilde reflects on the opportunities before her, and all she has achieved. Looking out at her elegant – not to say expensive – garden, the roses, brought in from Marrakech, have bloomed and their sweet, fresh scent pervades the air. Anything feels possible, and she is determined to celebrate it. Don’t they have the right to enjoy life, after dedicating their best years to the war and then to this farm?
Mathilde is blissfully unaware of what a new chapter of Moroccan history means for her family, the country and its future. Her babies are now grown up, and they are all about to learn that life can take wild and unexpected turns.
***
Leïla Slimani is the first Moroccan woman to win France’s most prestigious literary prize, the Prix Goncourt, which she won for Lullaby. A journalist and frequent commentator on women’s and human rights, she is French president Emmanuel Macron’s personal representative for the promotion of the French language and culture. Born in Rabat, Morocco, in 1981, she lives in Portugal.
You can read our interview with Leïla Slimani here
